


The Baker Street Irregulars

by CarmillaCarmine



Series: Festive Stories by CarmillaCarmine [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:41:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28177812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarmillaCarmine/pseuds/CarmillaCarmine
Summary: Sherlock keeps leaving the house in the evening without telling John where he’s going or taking him along. John decides to follow him.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Festive Stories by CarmillaCarmine [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2020148
Comments: 51
Kudos: 151
Collections: Festive Johnlock Collection





	1. Chapter 1

It was late afternoon, a week before Christmas when John and Sherlock left Baker Street to go to Scotland Yard. They needed more details about a series of robberies happening around London during the last several weeks, the investigation leading to a person with a solid alibi. At his wits’ end, Lestrade finally asked Sherlock, who was sure he would solve the mystery the moment he saw the evidence with his own eyes and, frankly, so was John.

On their walk, Sherlock stopped by a young man in dirty clothes; ripped jeans with a dark-green hooded jacket. He handed Sherlock a note and was given cash in return. Two 20 pound notes, John noticed. 

Sherlock quickly read the note, nodded and then, from the other coat pocket, handed him a folded note of his own.

“What was that?” John asked as they continued walking.

“Just exchanging information. I need to keep on top of what is going on in London at all times. Do keep up, John.”

“Right.” John nodded, falling into step with his friend. Their pace matched and John had the oddest feeling that Sherlock had adjusted his own long-legged strides to John’s at some point during their early crime-solving escapades. Maybe it was just his imagination, but it made him smile nonetheless. 

They made their way into Scotland Yard and after Sherlock took one look at the evidence, then at the suspect, he declared the man was innocent and his sister was the culprit. A detailed explanation of his deduction ensued, making several of the police staff shake their heads in disbelief. A clap on the back from Lestrade and a promise of drinks at Baker Street on Boxing day later, and they were on their way.

The moment they left, Sherlock hailed a cab and let John in first. Flattered, John scooted to the side, but instead of getting in, Sherlock closed the door and tapped the roof of the car twice. 

Miffed at being left, John reasoned that Sherlock must have been in need of the space and silence to think over the facts of the case. At home, John treated himself to hot tea by the fireplace on a cold, December afternoon. 

-

The next evening, when Sherlock's phone beeped once, he stood up abruptly. Grabbing his coat and scarf, he whirled out the door.

“Going somewhere?” John asked from the desk, where he’d been typing a blog entry, only to realise Sherlock had already left. No “Be back later”, no “Let's go, John”. Nothing.

John waited for him to return for hours but eventually fell asleep in his chair. 

-

The following evening, John managed to ask the question before Sherlock left.

“Do you want me to go with you?”

“No,” Sherlock replied quickly, wrapping a blue scarf around his long neck.

“Is it a case?”

“Not really.”

And just like that, Sherlock was out the door.

John scratched his brow, then stood up to look through the window. Sherlock's coat swirled as he headed west. 

Jacket in hand, John dashed out of the flat, deciding there was something fishy afoot with the detective’s behaviour. 

Running along the street, John managed to spot the tall figure with bouncing curls. John blended in with the crowd. Silently and covertly, he followed his flatmate. He saw Sherlock place a wad of money into a cup held by a middle-aged woman. Her clothes were ragged and she had an old checkered bag on wheels, possibly holding her most prized possessions.

John continued walking until someone grabbed him by the sleeve. 

“Sir, any change would do, please.” 

John turned to see the same woman Sherlock had just handed money to. 

“But he just--”

“Please sir,” she repeated, offering him a sweet smile, even if her teeth were in poor condition. 

John turned to where Sherlock had gone, then back to her.

“Oh, all right,” he said, reaching into his pocket. He didn’t carry a lot of cash but a fiver and some change always lingered in his wallet. He put it all in her cup.

“Merry Christmas, Doctor,” she said, nodding.

“Merry Christmas,” John muttered, his mind and his legs already following Sherlock. 

He ran for at least half a mile before he gave up. Sherlock had been gone the moment he took his eyes off of him. With a sigh of disappointment, he called off his pursuit. 

John Watson was no bloodhound, of that he was certain. 

On his way back home, John saw a small, white van and a long line of homeless people leading up to it on the other side of the street. The people giving out hot meals on a chilly, December evening wore yellow hi-viz vests over red jackets, and they had kind smiles to offer to the people they were serving. 

John stopped for a moment, overwhelmed by just how lucky he was, despite all the ups and downs he’d gone through in life. He was a doctor and he was helping people, he told himself, but maybe he could help more? 

With that thought in mind, he went back to his warm flat, where he was met by the smell of Mrs Hudson’s freshly-baked scones. 

-

This time, John was ready. 

His shoes were on, his jacket was at hand and he was only pretending to type on his laptop. In truth, he was waiting for Sherlock to leave again, so he could follow him immediately. 

As the detective’s habit had been for the entirety of the week, he left at 7pm without asking John to go with him.

With determination, John followed. Tenacious in his pursuit, John didn’t let any homeless person, cute dog or a nosy neighbour steer him off his path. His plan worked until Sherlock hailed a cab, leaving John to look around for another taxi, which never came. 

-

It was Christmas eve and all that was on John’s mind was Sherlock’s unusual behaviour as of late. He was sure Sherlock was purposefully not allowing John to follow him, which meant that he was hiding something. The sensible thing to do would be to let the grown-arse man keep his secrets. Sherlock Holmes, however, was not just any man. 

_ Oh God, was he getting a seven per cent solution? What if he was deep into it and John had been too blind to notice? _

As the thoughts crossed John’s mind, he looked at the tall figure of his best friend. Sherlock was playing the violin, filling the room with a beautiful melody John was vaguely familiar with. Facing the window, Sherlock was surrounded by the fairy lights John had put around the sill and along the inside of the sitting room. He seemed calm, yet lost in thought. 

“Are you using again?” The question was out of John’s mouth before he analysed the consequences of voicing his thoughts. 

The strings of the violin screeched off-tune as the music stopped abruptly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock reveals to John what he’d been doing every evening for the entire week leading up to Christmas Eve.

Without turning around, Sherlock put the violin in its case by the window then headed towards the door. 

“Are you coming?” he said, taking his coat off the hook. 

_ Was that a no?  _

John wanted to kick himself for being so insensitive, after  he’d scolded Sherlock for acting the same towards others many times before. Cold sweat beaded on his back at the very thought of his suspicion being true, but he hoped he’d find out the answer soon enough. Grabbing his jacket, he followed his best friend into the chilly air of London in December.

This time, Sherlock didn’t evade him. They walked alongside each other, not speaking, not discussing the question John had asked in the flat.

They passed another homeless person and Sherlock handed the young man a small note and a wad of cash. John was trying to be patient.  He’d survived several days without knowing what on  e arth Sherlock was doing  before ; he could hang on a few more minutes. 

When Sherlock hailed a cab, he got in first this time, scooting for John to follow. They got out by Waterloo Bridge and walked under , passing people huddled on the  ground in sleeping bags,  past dirty wall s, a nd a stench that reminded John of the barracks in the army at their worst. 

“Right on time, Mr Holmes!” a young, brown-skinned woman yelled as she jumped out from behind the wheel of a mid-sized, blue van. 

“Excellent,” Sherlock told her, as he signed on the bottom of a sheet she presented to him on a clipboard. “You might as well help, John. Since you’ve been so adamant about finding out what I’ve been doing.”

“Oh… okay.” Feeling like a complete  arsehole , since it didn’t look like Sherlock was organising  a drug operation, John followed to the back of the van where the woman unlocked the big double doors.

“I counted them personally. The company is very grateful for your support and investments, Mr Holmes. This will be the last delivery this week, but you ordered three more for the next, right?” the woman asked, looking through her paperwork. 

“Correct. Thank you, Betty.” Sherlock nodded, opening the door wider.

John looked between them as if he were watching a ping pong match, understanding the words spoken but not yet what it was all about. When a line of homeless people started forming next to the van, he had an inkling. 

“Oof,” John startled as he reflexively caught a bundle Sherlock had thrown his way. 

“One for each person in line. We should have enough for the ones gathered today,” Sherlock said, looking into the blue, ellipsoid rucksack with yellow, hi-viz stripes.

“What are these?” John asked, inspecting an identical bundle in his hands, bigger than three sleeping bags together, harder, but lighter. 

“Pop-up shelters. They’re insulated for cold weather, rainproof and lightweight to carry. They’re constructed origami-style for easy folding and set up.”

“Right,” John said, handing the first rucksack to a middle-aged woman who was first in line. It was the same woman that made him lose sight of Sherlock just a few days before. 

“Thank you, Doctor,” she said, offering a wide, knowing smile. “And Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” John chuckled, shaking his head.

She winked at him and John knew her previous interaction with  him had been  orchestrated by Sherlock. 

It took them nearly three hours to hand out the entire contents of the van with the help of Betty. John learned from her that Sherlock had been funding their startup company for a while so they’d be able to provide shelters for homeless people around London. He wanted to stay anonymous but had promised them that he’d use his connections to promote the idea to corporations and charities  so their business would be able to  develop and thrive .

The shelters were customisable in the sense that they could be decorated inside and out, making them truly personalised homes. Come to think of it, John was pretty sure he’d seen the origami housing here and there in the city but hadn’t paid much attention as he’d been usually in pursuit of a clue or a criminal. 

John waited until they got home to 221B and sat by Mrs Hudson’s scones and hot tea to ask his questions.

“Why did you hide it from me?”

Sherlock blew on his tea before he took a sip, looking lost in thought for a moment before he looked at John. 

“I wasn’t certain what you’d make of it.”

“It’s such a great initiative, I’m… impressed,” he said, sincerely. He knew Sherlock was capable of empathy but he wouldn’t expect the detective to put himself out there to that extent. The research and the planning that had to have gone to fund and organise the whole undertaking must have taken him months, as the shelters had to be manufactured in time. “What made you do it?”

“Are you questioning the goodness of my heart?” Sherlock asked, sarcasm clear in his voice.

“No,” John chuckled. “Just, I don’t know,” he shrugged. “It seems a bit…”

“Out of character?”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and sat back in his chair, his eyes travelling to the skull on the mantelpiece and over the strings of fairy lights above the mirror. John would give all the money he had to know what the detective was thinking. As it turned out, he didn’t have to.

“It was around this time of the year when I OD’d,” Sherlock started and John gasped loudly, sucking the air out of the entire room. Despite that, Sherlock didn’t look towards John as he continued. “My landlord from Montague Street called the Police when he couldn’t open the door to my flat. Lestrade was the one who took the call, even though he was already a DI then. He found me, called the ambulance and they called my brother.” He was recounting the story in a bored, emotionless voice, but John could tell by the way Sherlock massaged the tip of his forefinger with his thumb, that he was revealing a big part of his life. John was able to tell by the hunch in Sherlock’s shoulders and the grimace on his face that it was hard for him to speak of the time. “Every year, in late December, I’m haunted by the memories of the days leading to that event and what happened after. I remember all too clearly what could have happened to me...” Sherlock let his voice trail off.

John felt his chest constrict as he blinked fast, the words spoken in the semi-darkness of the sitting room shattering something inside him. He kept his eyes on the regal profile of the detective as the light from the flames in the hearth danced on his features. 

“Maybe it doesn’t seem like it, but I am very aware of my privileged upbringing and life, John. If not for that, I would be on the street along with my homeless network right now. Or I just wouldn’t be… at all. 

“Mycroft put me in rehab then. I got out after a month and threw myself back into work. I was looking for a new place to stay, but… Mycroft made me promise that I wouldn’t live alone after that. I had to have a flatmate who would call an ambulance in case I did something stupid again. You know the rest of the story…” Sherlock hung his head, the growing-out curls falling over his face. 

John’s heart hurt so much his chest felt numb from the pain.

“I didn’t know…” John said, stupidly. 

“Well, now you do. Do with the knowledge what you will,” Sherlock said harshly, clearly annoyed, letting the emotion seep into his voice for the first time. He stood up and turned to leave, but John shot up to grab his sleeve and stop him. 

He missed and grabbed Sherlock’s hand instead, warm from the tea he had been holding. 

“Don’t go,” John whispered, then cleared his throat to clear the lump stuck in there. “I see bravery in sharing your past with me. I see a man who chose to embrace his privilege and use it to help others. And I don’t mean just what I saw today. You help people every day by solving cases, mostly for free.”

“To your disgruntlement,” Sherlock added, turning halfway to John, squeezing his hand. 

“No, don’t play that down, not in front of me. I saw through you, Sherlock Holmes. You’re not the Grinch you paint yourself to be, your heart is way bigger than you let on and I know it. I’ve known it for a while; you just added one more piece of proof to a long list of the ones I already had.”

Feeling a surge of boldness, John pulled on Sherlock's hand, bringing him closer. To his surprise, Sherlock went willingly but stood straight as if waiting for John's next move.

Looking up, John inspected Sherlock's face, lips slightly curved in a small smile, cheeks flushed. He nodded once and John embraced his friend, his left hand splaying on Sherlock's back, his right, still squeezing Sherlock's fingers. 

The crook of Sherlock's neck where John put his face smelled of his flatmate and expensive cologne. 

It smelled like home. 

Sherlock's free arm wrapped around John and his body relaxed into John’s in the hug. 

John was unable to form words that could describe what he truly felt towards his best friend, but the hug was a huge step in confirming that maybe, just maybe, Sherlock would want to hear those words someday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas if you celebrate! Happy Holidays or fun winter break!   
> Thank you all for stopping by to read!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, kudos and comments! They mean a lot and keep me writing!  
>   
> The shelters in the story are based on "cardborigami" shelter. I made up the description of the backpack it comes in - imagining how it would work best for the homeless.  
> If you'd like to know more, check out [this website.](https://www.cardborigami.org)  
>   
>   
> If you enjoy my writing consider subscribing to [my profile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarmillaCarmine)  
> :)  
> If you'd like to read more of my Christmas-time stories, check out my ["Festive Stories Series"](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2020148)  
>   
> To read more Holidays-themed stories from other writers (or add your own), check out: ["Festive Johnlock Collection"](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Festive_Johnlock_Collection)  
> You can follow/contact me on:  
> [Johnlock Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sherlockedcarmilla)  
> [Johnlock Twitter](https://twitter.com/CarmillaCarmin)  
> For queries connected with translating my work, please see my bio :)


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